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Week Five:

The Man-of-Mystery slipped into Collegeville last Saturday, late in the evening, looking for something a little different . . . a departure from the same-old, same-old. Now if you want to stay close to home, which is a good idea these days, the options around here are scarce. I went to WaWa to get some smokes and saw the sign for the Brew House across the street. Why not. I had never experienced them nor they me, and, coincidentally, a jackass from my local haunt once shared that it was a great place to "score with some fine-ass chicks." Yes, he actually said score-with-some-fine-ass-chicks. Iíll spare him the embarrassment of identification. Besides, I have a feeling his head spins around more when he hears the word jackass than it does when he hears his birth-given name of Steve.

Anyway, although I wasnít on a mission to " score" (remember, I have a lovely wife at home whoís a distant relative of Albert Einstein), it was my intention to hole-up somewhere for an hour or two so I could indulge my forte---being mysterious. So in I strode . . .

. . . and there they were. A bar full of some of the fattest women in Collegeville. These were women of considerable acreage. Oprahites, Kate Smiths, and several versions of that lady they always show on the History channel when they do a piece on the carnival.

Just great, my inaugural visit to the Brew House comes on the night they cancel the local Jenny Craig meeting.

So I sat. And I drank. And I amused myself by looking around at this fleshy, jiggling fatscape and wondering what they would tell me about their condition if I were shit-faced enough to ask them. Which I wasnít, thank God, or this commentary might have been published posthumously. But if I was this is how it may have gone down.


Fatso #1 says: "IíVE GOT BIG BONES"

Me, shit-faced, says: "Wrong. The Dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum have got big bones, the dog at the end of my street has big bones, I have big bones when I wake up in the morning. Youíve got 206 normal-sized bones with a lot of fat on them! Not the same thing at all."

Fatso #2 says: "I RETAIN WATER"

Me, shit-faced, says: "So do camels, but if they had legs the size of yours we would have buried the Pharaohs in them instead of building the pyramids."


Me, shit-faced, says: "Well the cure isnít chocolate!"

Fatso #4 says: "ITíS IN MY GENES"

Me, shit-faced, says: "Are you sure? Whenís the last time you actually saw it?"

After similar fantasizing and just minutes after I had decided to leave, the orca closest to me initiated a conversation with the Mystery Man. She said she was going to school at the Chubb Institute and learning to be a web-page designer. I said how great that was and told her to take it easy.

As I slipped back into the night, I was struck by two thoughts, that Steve really was a jackass and . . . . the Chubb Institute.

Damn. I should have asked her if she got free tuition for being the mascot

                               Mystery Man





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